Inside Out (12 page)

“We thought it was a bluff,” Matt protested, eyeing the solemn-faced men watching them. “Nobody ever came before.”

George looked at the guns on the table. The stacks of loaded magazines. The large pistols. The table was filled with fascinating equipment.

“Nobody till you,” Matt added. “Are you Army men?”

“We're Special Forces,” the old man answered. His eyes flickered to take in his men, standing nearby, watching silently. “I am a general. My men and I are not going to be here long. But it's vital that nobody bothers us while we're working. This is a top-secret mission. I'm not entirely sure I should let you go. You might tell people, and then it could get back to the other side and we could lose a very important and extremely expensive war game.”

“We wouldn't ever tell, no matter what,” Matt vowed. “We're real good at secrets. We never, ever told anybody about this place. It's our secret and if we told, other kids would take it away.”

“If you don't tell my dad, I won't tell anybody about you guys fixing up your stuff here. He'll kill me, honest,” George heard himself say.

The old man was silent for a long time. Then he said tenderly, “Eat your apple. I'm not going to put you in jail this time . . . or even call your parents. But, George and Matthew—if you ever mention our presence, you and your parents will be in serious trouble. Just so you understand this is not a joke. Do I have your word of honor you will never speak of this? Both of you?”

Both boys nodded enthusiastically. “Well,” Matt said, “we thought it was a UFO you had in here.”

“Wouldn't that be something,” the old man murmured. “If you two can keep the secret and not tell anybody, you can come here anytime you like after we're gone and play all you want.”

“I bet riding in a helicopter is real fun,” Matt said. “When I grow up I'm going to be a helicopter pilot in the Army and fight with missiles and machine guns like yours.”

“I'm sure you will. You keep my secret and I'll make certain you get in the Army.”

“You sure got a lot of guns and stuff,” George said, relaxing, his excitement growing. “Are they real?”

“When you were spying on us, did you learn anything?” the general suddenly asked George.

“I heard you talking about devils and marshals. And how you are going to do something nobody's ever done before.”

“What did you hear?”

“Break into whipsticks.”

The general's face froze; his smile became a grimace.

“I have an idea,” the general said. “Boys, this is Ralph. He's a helicopter pilot. He will take you both for a nice helicopter ride.”

“Yes!” Matt exclaimed, not believing their good fortune.

“I have to be home by five-thirty,” George told him, hoping that wouldn't make the general cancel their ride.

“Oh, you'll be down well before five,” the old man assured him. “Don't want you two out after dark. Nobody knows better than I do how dangerous a place the world is.” The old man looked at Ralph. “Take special care of these boys.”

25

Rook Island, North Carolina

Martinez followed Sean out onto the porch, where Winter sat in a wicker chair with Midnight on his lap. Sean took a seat in a rocking chair near Winter. Midnight hopped down, sprang up into her lap, and looked up into her eyes. She stroked the animal, seemingly comforted by its soft fur, its purring, as she seemed to noticeably relax.

“Traitor,” Winter said to Midnight.

“I want to thank you for telling me the truth,” Sean told Winter, without looking at him. “I'm sorry if I got you in hot water.” It was the truth. She felt terrible despite the fact that her reaction to what he had told her wasn't her fault.

“It's not a problem,” Winter replied.

“Somebody should have told you the truth,” Martinez said. Sean liked Angela Martinez. The woman had shown her nothing but kindness.

“That would have been nice,” Sean said quietly.

When the front door swung open, Midnight leaped from her lap and raced off around the corner. Sean looked up to see Dylan step out onto the porch with Cross following behind him.

Dylan walked over and stood directly in front of her chair. Instead of turning her eyes away from him, she met his stare with a new kind of determination in her eyes.

“We
are
going to talk,” he told her.

Sean felt a sudden rush of anger. “I've said everything I am going to say to you, and I am not interested in anything else you have to say. Ever.”

She was aware that Winter, Cross, and Martinez were exchanging concerned glances, but she didn't care. After what she had just discovered, she would never care what anyone thought of her again.

Dylan smiled, but his smile, once so comforting, made her feel sick.

“You have time for a cat but not your husband? Where's your capacity for forgiveness?”

“The cat has integrity,” she snapped, wanting to get up, get away from him, but he blocked her by leaning in and gripping the armrests.

“Move!” Sean ordered.

“Not until you agree to talk to me.”

“There's nothing to discuss.” Nothing he had said to her or could say mattered in the least. Sean had never suffered from indecisiveness. Once she made a decision, that was it.

Winter stood. “Back off, Devlin. Cross, escort Mr. Devlin to his room.”

Thank you, Winter,
Sean thought, wishing she could confide in him how grateful she truly was.

“You don't have the authority to interfere between a man and his wife. You can't tell me to do anything, Mr. Ironman,” Dylan replied without taking his hands off Sean's chair or shifting his eyes from hers.

“Cross,” Winter said, “escort Mr. Devlin inside—now!”

“Fuck you, Massey,” Dylan told him.

Winter keyed the microphone. “Inspector, you might want to come out front. We have a situation.”

“You haven't seen a situation yet, Deputy,” Dylan said in a calm voice. “Sambo isn't going to change anything.”

Sean was relieved when Greg suddenly appeared, carrying a gun-shaped device Sean was unfamiliar with.

“Ms. Devlin, would you like to get up from the chair?”

Sean shook her head. “I would prefer
he
leave me alone.” Sean wasn't inclined to allow Dylan to control her at all, ever again. She would never again play the role of submissive, dutiful wife, blinded by passion.

“Mr. Devlin, step back,” Greg ordered.

“No,” Dylan said evenly. “Stay out of our business. My wife and I are going to have a talk
—boy.”

“You see the stun gun I have in my hand?” Greg motioned menacingly. “If you don't back off, I am going to put you on the floorboards and restrain you for the duration. Choice is yours, Devlin. Back up or ride the lightning.” The Taser fired barbs that delivered 50,000 volts of electricity through wires connected to the weapon.

Sean wondered if Greg would really use the thing on Dylan, wondered if it would hurt him. She dearly hoped it would, with a newfound vengeance that would have shocked her the previous day.

“Touch me and Whitehead'll have your ass.”

“I don't take orders from Whitehead,” Greg told him. “I go by our protocols concerning whatever means are necessary to keep you safe, which are also designed to keep you from harming others. Our choices range from a takedown, like this Taser I am about to use on you, to cutting you in half with a shotgun.”

“I am not
just
another witness,” Dylan said, his eyes still locked on Sean's.

“No, you're a multiple murderer. The bottom line is that you will do what I say, when I say to do it, or I will fry you. End of discussion.”

“Mr. Devlin,” Martinez interposed. “Nobody can win here. We won't allow you to force Mrs. Devlin to do anything against her will. Inspector Nations won't back off and he isn't bluffing. Your call.”

Dylan finally turned his head to look at the marshals on the porch and at Beck, Bear, and Forsythe, who had appeared out on the sand behind them, armed. Dylan shook his head slowly, lifted his hands, and stepped back.

“You're a bright girl,
Mar-tee-nez,”
Devlin said. “Calmer heads should always prevail. I'll just say good afternoon.”

Sean stared at her husband's back as he walked inside. A burst of wind hit and brought with it the scent of rain.

“He won't bother you again,” Greg told her.

“If he comes near me again I will be forced to hold the USMS responsible,” she carped more out of pride at having been shown up as a victim in front of men. She knew this wasn't the fault of the deputy marshals on the detail. Keeping her in the dark was someone else's doing. “I want to leave now—tonight,” she said, meaning it, unable to back down now.

“I'll advise Control of the situation immediately. We're all leaving the island tomorrow. I have no idea where we'll be staying after we go. Under the circumstances, we'll make arrangements for separate quarters.”

“I will not spend another day near my husband. I absolutely refuse to travel anywhere with him.”

“Let me work on that,” Greg said evenly, trying to calm her down. “He won't bother you again. You just stay in your room as much as possible. Martinez will remain with you from now on. I wish I could do better.”

“So do I,” Sean replied curtly. “I won't stay locked up in my room like a criminal because of him. He is the one who should be locked up.”

Greg handed Martinez the Taser—a stun gun—and went inside. “Don't hesitate to use this. We have more.”

26

Wednesday night

What had happened with Dylan on the porch had nearly been a disaster. It was obvious that the dynamics of the safe house were rapidly deteriorating. Greg had to make some changes to stay on top of Dylan, who was obviously desperate to trigger a confrontation. Perhaps he was just playing games to entertain himself, but the consequences of a game designed by a psychopathic mind could be both unpredictable and deadly.

Winter had been scheduled for a shift in the security room, but he wanted to be outside. Just before the shift started, Bear agreed to swap places with him. As Winter and Beck were about to leave the house, Greg appeared and took Winter aside. He waited for Beck to close the door before he spoke.

“We're taking Dylan out tomorrow evening because a night move is safer. I've got permission to leave Beck and Martinez behind with Ms. Devlin. They'll escort her out on Saturday and you'll be home for Sunday.”

Winter spent from midnight until three walking the perimeter of the house. He liked the solitude, the soft roar of the surf, the pelting of the rain on his hood. He found himself unable to stop thinking about Sean Devlin. He admired her intelligence and tenacity but was perplexed at how a woman like her could have married a man like Dylan. Even so, there was something very special about Sean: hidden depths that had gradually begun to reveal themselves. Despite her strength—the fact that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself—he found himself wanting to shelter and protect her. Something in her he couldn't define had gotten to him. He hardly knew anything at all about her and he knew he shouldn't waste his time thinking about her. In less than eighteen hours he would be gone and would never see her again. But still . . .

Beck waved Winter up onto the porch.

“This is miserable,” Beck grumbled. “Who in their fucking right mind would come out here in this shit to pop that bastard?”

“Maybe killers in raincoats.”

“This island isn't even on a map.” Beck lifted an empty thermos. “Jet could protect Dylan out here.”

Winter didn't respond.

“You think she's pretty?” Beck asked.

“Too bossy for me. Good cook, though.”

“Not Jet. Martinez. She's fine. You've noticed, right?”

“She's good at her job,” Winter said noncomittally.

“I think she's hot. But she's never so much as . . . I don't know, it's weird. It's really something to see her laugh.”

“You ever asked her out?”

Beck shook his head. “I wanted to a bunch of times. I mean, sure, I hint around and sometimes she . . . I mean, I think she likes me okay. Hard to tell. I've been meaning to ask you something. You weren't betting for her, but against Dylan, right? You didn't think she would win over Cross? Hell, that was cool, the way she showed everybody her stuff. And you pissed off Devlin big-time.”

“I need coffee,” Winter said, uncomfortable discussing someone he respected behind her back.

“I'll go in and get us some,” Beck offered.

“No, I'll do it,” Winter said, eager to get out of the wet. “S-one,” Winter said into his mouthpiece, “W.M. coming in for coffee.”

There was no response.

“Maybe Bear's in the crapper?” Beck said. “Or hibernating.”

Winter instinctively slung the AR over his shoulder and drew his SIG.

“We go to the security room together. Cover my back,” he said quietly yet determinedly.

Entering into the foyer, Winter slipped to the arch ahead of Beck and aimed his gun down the hall. He nodded that it was clear and moved with stealth toward the security room door, which was open a crack. No light showed under either Dylan's or Sean's door. Winter stood in front of the security room door, pushed it open, and lunged inside, aiming his gun at the dark figure bent over Dixon. “Freeze!” Winter ordered.

Beck moved in swiftly behind Winter, aiming his rifle at the figure dressed in pajamas, bent over Dixon.

“Greg?” Winter lowered his gun and moved farther into the room. Dixon was as fully reclined as the swivel chair allowed. His eyes were closed and his face was so pale it looked like it had been bleached white.

“He's out cold.” Greg turned his attention back to Dixon and slapped his cheeks. “Wake up, Bear,” he coaxed angrily.

Winter saw that the coffeepot had started to smoke, so he turned it off before leaning his AR against the wall. He slipped his coat off and dropped it beside the rifle.

“Help me with him, then go and get me some water,” Greg told Beck as he and Winter lifted the big man from the chair and lowered him to the floor. Panicked at the unexpected turn of events, Beck left his Colt carbine propped beside Winter's and stepped into the bathroom, filling a glass.

“I was having trouble sleeping, went to the kitchen. I smelled the coffee burning,” Greg said.

“Heart attack?” Winter asked.

Greg shook his head. He lifted Dixon's eyelid. “I don't think so. He's breathing fine.”

When Greg poured the glass of water over Dixon's face the reaction was immediate.

“What thafuckeryoudoing?” he growled, flailing at them. “Jesus H. Christ,” he groaned, gripping his head.

“What's wrong, Bear?”

“My head!” Dixon moaned in agony.

“Stroke?” Beck asked Greg.

“He's been drugged,” Winter said.

“Bear, did you take anything?” Greg asked.

“Nothing. Had coffee with Martinez and she left and . . . I was just sitting there. And . . .”

Winter picked up Dixon's cup of coffee from the console, dipped his finger in just enough so he could get a drop on his tongue. “Maybe there's something in it, but with the sugar and milk, I can't tell.”

Greg removed Bear's pistol from his holster. Dixon tried to sit up, then gave up. Winter pulled his flashlight, turned it on, and locked it against the receiver of his SIG. “Dylan,” Winter said.

The three marshals left Dixon on the floor and rushed into the hallway, their guns poised. Greg kicked open Dylan's door and Winter, seeing the killer sit up in bed, moved swiftly to Sean Devlin's suite with Beck. He opened the door to the sitting room and flipped the light switch on.

Martinez sat slumped on the couch. A cup of cold coffee was on the table beside her. Winter put his hand on the pulse in her neck, then left her for Beck to rouse. Sean's bedroom door was slightly ajar.

Using his foot so he could maintain his aim, Winter pushed the door open. Sean was lying facedown across the bed, wearing only panties. Winter pressed his fingertips to her neck to check for a pulse and got more than he expected. She yelled out, scrambled upright, and pressed her back against the headboard. Realizing that Winter and Greg were staring at her, she jerked a pillow up to cover her breasts. “What!” she screamed.

After Greg moved into the room, Dylan came up behind him.

When she saw Dylan, Sean jumped up, jerked the sheet off the bed, and wrapped it around her. “All of you, get out of my room!” she yelled. “What are you doing?”

“I'm sorry,” Winter said. “Dixon and Martinez were drugged.”

“I don't understand.”

“Ask him.” Winter indicated Dylan.

“Ask me what?” Dylan said.

“He thought it would be me,” Winter told Sean.

“Thought what would be you?” Greg asked.

“I was listed on the board to be in the security room, but I traded with Dixon. Devlin planned to take me when I was knocked out.”

“You're a paranoid fool,” Dylan said, smiling. “I could take you if
I
was knocked out.”

Martinez was awake when they returned to the den but looked like hell.

“What happened?” Greg asked.

“I don't know. I was just sitting here.”

“You got coffee from the security room?”

“Yeah. Then I came in here thinking I would read.”

“You didn't lock the door?”

“Of course I locked it.”

“It was open,” Winter said.

“You don't suppose the wind blew it open?” Dylan asked.

“Sean's wasn't locked, either,” Winter said.

“I locked my door,” Sean insisted.

“Goodness,” Dylan mocked. “This is frightening. Someone could have harmed me.”

Without a word, Winter went straight to the security room. “What's up?” Bear asked, staring at him blearily.

“Devlin drugged you.”

“How?”

“Was he in here at all earlier?”

“For a minute, around eleven, talking to Cross.”

Crouching low and close to the coffee table, Winter spotted white residue on the surface. He pressed his finger to the powder and touched his tongue. Hurriedly, he left for Devlin's room.

Greg followed him and watched grimly as Winter started pulling open the drawers and rifling through their contents.

“Can I help you?” Dylan asked from the doorway. Winter reached into the table beside the bed, lifted out a bottle, and tossed it to Greg.

“Here you go.”

“Prescribed for pain,” Dylan needled. “You think they might be too strong for me?”

“You put them in the coffee, you son of a bitch,” Winter told him.

“That's crazy talk, Deputy. Why would I?”

Greg had poured the capsules out into his palm. “Bottle says there should be twelve. They're all here.”

“I didn't take any. You can become an addict taking narcotics.”

“Maybe you figured if you knocked us out you could talk reason to your wife,” Winter said.

“Unnecessary,” Dylan replied, smiling confidently. “She's my wife. While she might be a bit miffed, she still loves me as much as ever, probably more. Sean's a good Catholic, loves and obeys the Pope. Doesn't believe in divorce.”

Winter took one of the pills from Greg. He pulled it apart and poured the contents into his palm and looked at the granules. “It's sugar.”

“They're
all
sugar,” Greg said after he had emptied two more, tasting to make sure.

“Someone stole my drugs? What if I had been in pain? You can't even trust United States marshals anymore! I demand an investigation.” Devlin crossed to the bed and climbed in, snickering at them. “Cut out the light and close the door after you, boys.”

Greg suggested they account for all of the weapons in the house, even the kitchen knives. They found that every gun was where it was supposed to be—all loaded, all firing pins in place.

“Dylan didn't drug the coffee to gain access to the guns,” Winter said. “The only other reason for him to do it would be to get to Sean. He was in her room.”

“Unless Martinez was zonked, opened the door herself, and then didn't lock it,” Greg said.

“And Sean unlocked her bedroom door and forgot? No, he picked the locks.”

“Maybe he
was
planning to get to you,” Greg told Winter.

“There's no love lost, but I can't see Dylan risking his deal with the government to punish me.”

“Unless he could make it look like an accident.” Greg yawned. “One more thing I need to know, pal, and I want the absolute truth.”

“Yeah?”

“In all of your life, have you ever seen two more perfect breasts than Sean Devlin's?”